


Stitches

by Romire



Category: Abarat Series - Clive Barker
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Familial Abuse, Gen, Self-Harm, Suggestive Themes, Suicide Pacts, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26874904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romire/pseuds/Romire
Summary: Assorted stories and one-shots centered mostly around Carrion, but may feature other characters in the future. See chapter summaries for ratings and summary.
Relationships: Christopher Carrion/Princess Boa
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	1. Stitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating** : Mature  
>  **Warning(s)** : Emotional abuse, torture, implied sexual themes.  
>  **Character(s)** : Christopher Carrion and Mater Motley  
>  **Summary** : Takes place after Carrion begins tutoring Boa in magic, and before he starts begging for her hand in marriage. Six months before his eighteenth birthday, Christopher Carrion admits his feelings for Princess Boa... to his grandmother.  
>  **Genre(s)** : Horror

* * *

It had been a long time since Christopher Carrion had visited his grandmother in the thirteenth tower. Far too long, he knew.

To his own credit, the young Prince had been preoccupied of late. He was nearing his eighteenth year, and the increasing responsibility of being head of an Island (particularly one as volatile as Gorgossium) had already proven burdensome. He scarcely had time for more than a few hours of fitful sleep in between balancing his newly-appointed duties, and was now expected to familiarize himself with the throng of undesired visitors who came to offer premature tribute, no doubt in the hope of becoming closer associates once he finished his ascendancy to the title of Lord of Midnight. As far as Gorgossium's only heir was concerned, the sudden political frenzy surrounding his upcoming inheritance was completely redundant and unwarranted; it wasn't as if there were any others still alive who could contest his birthright.

So, when the Princess Boa had offered to visit (as she often did) he had eagerly accepted, grateful for the pleasant distraction her company provided. In this way he was absolved from meeting with any other well-wishers by the excuse that he was entertaining fellow royalty, and should therefore not be disturbed.

For her part, Boa had been able to sway her father into agreeing to regular trips to the Midnight Hour. Quite how she had managed to negotiate this arrangement Christopher wasn't sure, but he greatly appreciated her luminous presence over the scathing perfectionism of his only remaining family member. Unfortunately, Boa's stay had to come to an end and she returned to the warm glow of her father and brother in Day, leaving Carrion to deal with the consequence of his procrastination.

He was well aware that the longer he waited before seeing Mater Motley the more vitriolic she would be about being "abandoned" for so long. After receiving a third and final summons to the top of the Thirteenth Tower (that was sewn in bright red thread onto the back of some unfortunate stitching), he braced himself and went to meet his grandmother.

* * *

Mater Motley had said nothing from the moment he'd entered the dining chamber, and he knew better than to cajole her into a conversation. Greeting her by pretending he hadn't been avoiding her for the past two weeks would likely instigate violence, while apologies and excuses would most assuredly also be seen as pitiful and equally worthy of punishment.

So, Christopher Carrion sat rigid and silent in a chair made of wickerthorn at the ornate dining table, the both of them ignoring the generous spread of food laid out for their meeting. Tradition dictated that the head of a particular tower should be the first to dine, but his grandmother almost never did, and the food sat cold and uneaten as always. Christopher _was_ hungry, but unease did enough to quell his appetite for now.

Mater Motley finally glanced up at him.

"How good it is to see you, Carrion. You've been rather scarce, of late." Her words were warm but her tone certainly wasn't. He'd have to be careful.

"I fear that I have been rather preoccupied, Grandmother, preparing to be officiat--"

“I live next door, Christopher, and your responsibilities as Crown Prince are not so taxing that you could not have come to see me.”

"... I was also busy with--"

"I know full well what you were ' _busy_ ' with, Carrion," Motley said, her gaze sharp and voice icy. "Or, rather, _who_."

Christopher shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to decipher exactly what he needed to say to soothe his grandmother's ire, but Mater Motley wasn't interested in waiting for his defenses.

"Your _tutelage_ of The Princess Boa has gone on quite long enough, Carrion," the Hag declared, indomitable as ever. "You are teaching the Princess of Day far too many of our secrets."

"... You were the one who agreed that tutoring her would be 'useful' in the first place, Grandmother," Christopher reminded her incredulously. "I asked you before we even began."

"I put up with you traipsing around with the Royalty of Day because I thought it might be tactically beneficial for us when the time comes, as you well knew; I had hoped that you might learn something important regarding our future enemies, or at least be able to predict if and when they might snap the flimsy olive branch of their peace treaty and decide to wipe us out for good. I did not say anything about wanting you to have _relations_ with King Claus's daughter!"

"Grandmother, be reasonable. We're certainly not hav--"

"I am being _reasonable_ ," Mater Motley snapped sourly, "and I have been more than tolerant of your little pet project. The Princess Boa could very likely end up as Queen of Day; if not on her own merit then in the event her brother dies. Teaching her any magic beyond simple parlor tricks-- anything that can be _useful_ \-- could cost us an important victory in the future!"

Christopher swallowed, but he was unable to quash the swell of anger he felt at the old woman's ludicrous accusations. As if Boa would ever use her power against _him_!

"Someday," Mater Motley said, the pace of her needle still not faltering throughout the entirety of their exchange, "you two may find yourselves on the opposite ends of a battlefield."

Carrion felt his hands tighten, his fingernails biting into his kneecaps. "We won't be," he said quietly, scarcely aware he'd said anything over the rush of fury throbbing through his ears and temples,

"What was that?" the Hag said and, despite her gaze having dropped back to the work in her lap, her tone was direct.

"Boa would not betray me," he said harshly, his voice regaining its strength through certainty.

"A promise is only as solid as the foundation on which it was made, Carrion..." A pause, filled only by the clicking of needles. "And what has she promised _you_ I wonder? Understanding? Empathy? Or perhaps something more _salacious_?"

Christopher bristled. "Excuse me?"

"You and I both know well how the weak are drawn to those with magic, power, and comfort," Mater Motley said, "like moths to a flame. Now I must ask; Which of you is the _moth_ , Christopher? Because if I find out that you've been passing on our secrets in exchange for a few moments of warm, fleeting _pleasure_ , I will see to it that the object of your desire is reduced to cinders."

What had started inside him as a hot spark of indignation suddenly erupted into blazing fury, catching alight like a match thrown onto a grease pan. Christopher Carrion stood abruptly, although not even the sharp crack of the back of his chair colliding with the cold stone floor had enticed the Hag's gaze back towards him.

" _How dare you!_ " His voice cracked as he shouted, and he saw his grandmother's lips twist, though whether in amusement or disgust he couldn't quite tell. "You know _damn_ well that--!"

"Watch your tone, _boy_ ," Mater Motley said with a quiet, brittle edge. Her voice had not raised beyond its normal volume, but the imminent threat it carried momentarily silenced him. "I will not tolerate our carefully laid plans falling apart all because you want to indulge yourself with a daughter of Day. Perhaps you have done nothing, and this entire façade is all about the chase. The conquest. But if you absolutely must whet your appetite for such things, then I’d ask that you at least pick someone who will not take everything you have and leave you _wanting_."

"I _love_ her!" Christopher snarled, and in the midst of his own fury it took him a moment to register what he’d just said.

Those three words had bubbled within him for weeks now, stewing in his chest and mind ever since he'd first dared to consider them. He'd chewed them over his tongue countless times, never quite saying them aloud, but now they finally boiled over and there was no putting them back into the pot.

The ceaseless, almost mechanical clicking and winding of flesh and fabric in Mater Motley's lap stuttered to a halt. The Hag of Gorgossium didn't look up at him. She didn't even seem to breathe for a very long moment, the abrupt stillness making her look much like some sort of horrendous metal sculpture hewn from raw ore. Christopher could taste iron in the back of his throat.

"Do you indeed." It was not a question that finally grated from the other end of the table. He knew that tone, as ominous and cold as a stone sharpening the edge of a knife. His grandmother moved then, smoothly placing the skin of her current project over the arm of her seat before standing, one of her needles slipping away into her sleeve while she rolled the other between her fingers. Christopher saw her free hand twist into a hard-knuckled fist.

Carrion's anger had evaporated into panic and he tried fleetingly to respond, to placate or explain away his statement as hastily as he could think up an excuse, but he realized with a start that he couldn't _move_. For a moment he almost believed that the combination of rage and fear roaring through him had utterly paralyzed him, before he recognized Motley's clenched fist for what it was; not a silent indication of her own rage, but a curse to render him immobile.

Christopher tried feverishly to think of any magic that would undo her hold, but none of the counter spells he could remember would work without a spoken word or a gesture to manifest them.

Mater Motley stopped less than a foot away, and reached out with two fingers, prodding him gently in the chest.

Christopher Carrion swayed and fell, the back of his right knee colliding painfully with one of the legs of his overturned chair and his head hitting the stone floor with a sharp crack. He distantly hoped the impact would leave him mercifully dazed, but the disorientation faded after a few moments, the sparks and stars that had momentarily blinded him dissolving like fireworks.

Kneeling, Mater Motley carefully slotted a thick black thread into the loop of her needle, and without a word began her work.

* * *

Five minutes had passed before the Hag was satisfied her task was complete. Staring at him in harsh scrutiny, she took no immediate notice of his wide eyes blazing with impotent rage and suffering, and instead ran a thin finger over the stitches digging into his lips, finding them slightly uneven but sufficient.

Finally registering his expression, Motley's lips thinned and her own visage twisted into disgust. She still didn't say anything to him, but instead reached down and seized her grandson by the hair. Despite him being rather taller than her now (he was harder to manhandle now that he’d entered gangly adolescence) she dragged his dead weight to the door of the dining chamber with little effort. The sensation of her wrenching on his scalp made Christopher’s eyes water, although by some miracle his grandmother didn’t notice. The tautness of his skin against the stitches made them dig into the tender flesh around his mouth even more.

" _Magar'tha!_ " The Hag shrieked, and there was a momentary pause before the door burst open as one of her many maidservants hurried into the chamber.

"Y-yes, my Lady?" the servant panted, flustered at the old woman's fury and scarcely having time to register the scene before her.

"Return this whelp to his Tower." Mater Motley punctuated her order with a hard kick to the heap at her feet. Christopher's eyes rolled in agony, and he fought to move away from her, distantly aware that if his stomach hadn’t been already been empty he would’ve vomited from the pain.

"Of course, Lady," Magar'tha replied, collecting herself and turning her attention to the crumpled figure on the floor.

Mater Motley turned away and gathered the remains of her sewing from where she'd left it hanging over the arm of the chair. She examined it for a moment before her lips twisted into a snarl and she flung it into the cold flame of the fireplace.

"Oh, and Margar'tha," she spat, seeing her handmaiden had managed to reign in a pair of armed stichling guards to help her carry the Midnight Prince back to his tower. "Make _damn_ sure his servants know that if any of them should take pity on him and attempt to undo my handiwork before I am satisfied that he's been sufficiently punished... death is a _tender mercy_ compared to what I will do to them."

Margar'tha bowed deeply in acknowledgement, before turning to follow the stitchlings and their burden out into the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Beneath the Surface, Christopher Carrion's mouth was sewn shut by Motley when he was "approximately seventeen (and a half)" and, combined with Christopher's own account in Absolute Midnight that he fell in love with Boa when he "was a very young man", always gave me the impression that these events were directly related to one another, and that Motley didn't just sew Carrion's mouth shut just for happening to say the word "love" in her presence at random.


	2. Tattered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating** : Mature  
>  **Warning(s)** : Explicit descriptions of injuries and self-harm. Mentions of physical violence, emotional abuse and manipulation, death threats, suicide pacts, eating difficulties, and mild sexual implication.  
>  **Character(s)** : Christopher Carrion and Princess Boa.  
>  **Summary** : Takes place after the events of Stitches. Princess Boa returns to Gorgossium and finds Christopher Carrion in a bad state after being confronted by Mater Motley.  
>  **Genre(s)** : Hurt/Comfort (Sort Of)/Romance (One-Sided)/Angst (Carrion)

* * *

It had scarcely been a full month since The Princess Boa had last seen Christopher Carrion, but she already sensed that her upcoming visit to Gorgossium would be difficult.  
  
Not long after she had returned home from her last visit to the Midnight Hour, Carrion’s letters had ceased arriving completely. The Princess of Day was relieved at first; the near daily influx of correspondence between herself and the Lord of Midnight had gotten rather tiresome of late. Yet, as the days dragged on into a week, Boa began to wonder if this prolonged silence could be a sign of uncertainty for her continued tutorship, and she reluctantly resolved to send letters of her own to formally inquire on his health and duties. In response, Christopher Carrion’s messages abruptly resumed, but there was a new, almost frenetic edge in his penmanship that Boa took to be a grim omen.  
  
It became clear to her that something was wrong; Carrion refused to say much about the recent events in Iniquisit even when prompted and, when Boa pressed him for details regarding his well-being, she was left a little stunned when he suddenly suggested postponing her return indefinitely  
  
_‘It is not, of course, out of any desire to avoid you, dearest Princess,’_ he wrote, and Boa’s lip had curled slightly at the weedling tone to his writing. _‘But rather that unforeseen circumstances have arisen which, I am loath to say, must be prioritized over our next meeting.’_  
  
Carrion would not explain precisely why he’d opted to shun her, despite her efforts at prodding him for a specific answer. Sick of his evasiveness, Boa finally informed him in no uncertain terms that she was coming to see him just as they’d originally planned. There were more days of silence following her declaration before Carrion responded with a short letter of acquiescence and nothing more.  
  
So, the Princess of Day boarded a beautiful skip from the private harbor on Yzil. It had been three days since his last letter, and she was eager to discover what sort of unrest the Midnight Hour had endured during her time at home.

* * *

From the offset, Boa knew her suspicions were warranted. Carrion would usually meet her at the landing on Vrokonkeff, barring some critical business; tonight, however, the Princess Boa boarded her private carriage unchaperoned, and the Lord of Midnight’s continued absence when she arrived at the Fortress of Iniquist only exacerbated her sense of unease.  
  
She wasn’t particularly afraid of Twelfth Hour anymore, nor it’s monstrous denizens, but the lack of her host’s presence made her feel rather more vulnerable than usual. Boa knew her magic would ward off more simple animals that stalked the Island of Gorgossium, but she was slightly less optimistic regarding her chances against some of the zealous hopefuls who thronged Iniquisit, each hoping to thin the competition for some favor from Carrion or his grandmother.  
  
When the Princess finally entered her usual quarters, she was reassured to learn that the servants had anticipated her arrival; the sheets were freshly pressed and her room warmed by the soft crackle of hearthfire.  
  
Over the next few hours the Princess unpacked, ate, and flipped through some of the more rudimentary magical texts that had been left in the room since her last visit. She half expected Christopher to arrive at her chambers over the next few hours, flustered and apologetic over the delay, but as the endless night dragged on Boa decided that she didn’t particularly care if Carrion was feeling standoffish. If he wanted to be rude, she thought to herself, then that was his business. She could simply wait him out.

* * *

After a troubled sleep followed by another five hours of private study, the Princess was feeling far less patient. Was Carrion really going to waste their limited time together? Boa could only be expected to entertain herself in the dismal atmosphere of Gorgossium for so long without becoming bored and irate.  
  
Perhaps it was time to seek Christopher Carrion out herself.  
  
It quickly became apparent to her that this would not be a simple task. The young Lord of Midnight’s servants were always secretive, but the few she managed to locate on this particular night wouldn’t even speak to her. Occasionally, they would gesture aimlessly in a vague direction, before shaking their heads and wringing their clawed hands despairingly. When the Princess tried to ask for more information they would abscond from her presence as if chased by baying hounds.  
  
Boa tolerated this unhelpful behavior for quite some time before she was able to make any sort of sense of where they were leading her. When she did, the Princess of Day was dismayed to find herself standing in a long hallway hung with decorative oil lamps, just outside the heavy carved door to Christopher Carrion’s private quarters.  
  
To say that she was reluctant to enter would have been a gross understatement.  
  
At best, she knew the gossip-mongers of the Abarat would have their parade of speculation if she was seen entering the royal bedchambers of Night unaccompanied. Worse, she feared, their gossip might become a true retelling of what could happen if Carrion took her impromptu visit to be anything even remotely intimate...  
  
And yet, the Princess dismissed that last worry almost as quickly as it arose in her mind. Christopher Carrion had been alone with her many times during the course of their studies together and, while his infatuation was obvious, he had never really acted untoward. His reputation was questionable, certainly, as any man with his notoriety might expect, but Carrion himself had given her precious little cause to suspect she might face any real harm in his presence; and, in truth, Boa could not deny she was unbearably curious as to what might be keeping the Lord of Midnight so preoccupied.  
  
Steeling herself, Boa knocked firmly on the door.  
  
“Carrion?” she called, as loudly as she dared. “It’s me, your Princess. Are you there?”  
  
There was no response for a long moment and Boa almost turned away before she heard some faint shuffling and a soft thump of something dropping to the floor. She held her breath, expecting to hear more sounds indicating that someone may be preparing to open the door for her, but there was nothing more than silence once again.  
  
“Christopher?” Boa called again, and a sudden thought alarmed her; what if he wasn’t _alone_ in there?  
  
The Princess felt faintly nauseated at the thought. What if the Lord of Midnight had grown tired of waiting for their game to end and had found someone _else_ to shower his affections upon? Someone far more willing to acquiesce to his bargains of magic for _love_ ? While Boa had no intentions of letting him claim her heart in marriage or otherwise, she certainly didn’t want anyone else to take her place as his star pupil.  
  
“I’m coming in,” she declared, unable to keep the edge out of her voice. The Princess laid her hand on the doorknob and was preparing to utter a small spell to undo the lock when she found that the handle turned smoothly in her grip.  
  
The door swung open on ill-oiled hinges and sparse light from the hall spilled into the darkened chamber beyond. Boa could faintly make out the large, squat shapes of furniture in the darkness, but it was difficult to see much of anything beyond. Carefully, she reached up and lifted one of the heavy decorative lamps from it’s bracket, and slowly made her way over the threshold.  
  
The light dimmed the moment she stepped into the Lord of Midnight’s chambers, smothered by heavy shadows in a manner she knew to be magical in nature. Fortunately, the small flame didn’t give out completely and Boa had a little light with which to navigate. She made her way with the soft glow not quite managing to touch the furthest corners of the room, scanning for any clear signs of occupancy. She nearly jumped as the door clicked shut somewhere behind her; she raised the lantern to look but it couldn’t penetrate through the darkness well enough for her to spot the door or it’s frame.  
  
The first thing she happened upon was a bed, _his_ bed, cold and empty. The sheets were disturbed, but they didn’t look as if they’d been slept under in some time, and there were a couple of rust-colored stains and smears on the pillowcase. Boa touched them briefly; she half expected them to be oily, looking as they did like greasepaint in the soft light, but the marks were dry and flaked against her fingers. Blood, she knew.  
  
A collection of small trinkets and scraps of paper rested on the nightstand. Boa ignored them after a cursory glance, suspecting they contained nothing more than incomplete fragments of Carrion’s damnable poems. She had read enough of them already to last her a lifetime.  
  
Overall, Christopher’s private quarters were cluttered, but almost disappointingly ordinary aside from a few small pieces of arcane or artistic flair. Books were stacked in tottering cairns on the floor around the bed, desk, and walls. A dusty spherical globe Boa recognized as an antiquated map of the Hereafter sat atop a tall, ornate wardrobe. A desk was piled with writing materials and an empty scrying basin. The Princess nearly slipped when she trod upon a small cylindrical object, which turned out to be a wax seal emblazoned with the heraldic insignia of the Midnight Hour.  
  
Despite all of the little discoveries Boa had made during her venture into Christopher Carrion’s room, there was still no sign of the Lord of Midnight himself. She tried to decide what to do now; if Carrion wasn’t in his private chambers then surely she couldn’t just stay here and wait for him to return. Then again, if Boa left and he somehow deduced she _had_ been here, he might suspect she had been snooping.  
  
‘ _Well, technically I_ am _snooping_ ,’ she thought wryly to herself, ‘ _just not for magic, this time._ ’  
  
As she reached the wall at the far end of the chamber, the Princess discovered a closed window, its heavy shutters locked in place. It would do little harm to sneak a peek outside, Boa thought, so she absently flicked open the clasp and opened the shutter, hoping for a breath of cool night air.  
  
The room was immediately bathed in pale blue light from the full moon and, somehow, the lunar glow cut through the darkness that the lantern couldn’t breach. She could see much more of the chamber now; the walls were covered in ornate decorative patterns interspersed with vicious gouges and strange scrawlings; the ceiling high and painted in dark, elaborate frescos of night-beasts which leapt and prowled above her.  
  
Boa turned to look at more of the room and jumped, startled, when she noticed someone standing right beside the door. The Princess recognized him immediately by his silhouette, and she felt rather unsettled by the realization that she must have walked right past him in the darkness. He had likely been here the entire time.  
  
Even in the poor light, Boa could see that Christopher Carrion was in poor health. He was leaner than she remembered, making his typically sunken cheeks look even more gaunt. His clothes hung somewhat loosely on his body; he had shucked off the ornate robes he usually wore for their lessons and was dressed in a navy tunic and trousers, which were hopelessly rumpled and speckled with poorly-washed spots of dried blood. Most unsettlingly, Carrion had one of his long hands clamped tightly over his mouth, and he was staring at her in a glassy, stricken manner.  
  
“Christopher?” Boa whispered, hoping he would say or do something instead of just watching her with eerie stillness. She nearly jumped a second time when he _did_ move; Carrion took nearly five strides from the closed door towards her before she saw his knees wobble, and the Princess-- somewhat reluctantly-- hurried over and gingerly took hold of his arm. She guided him to the edge of the bed and he sat there for a long moment, breathing slowly but shakily through his nose. He was trembling, with one hand still clutched over his mouth, and Boa wondered if he was trying to fight down nausea.  
  
“... You should’ve clarified in your letter that you were ill,” she chided lightly to try and break the uncomfortable silence, all false sweetness and concern. “I would’ve been more willing to give you more time if you had just told me the truth.”  
  
His wide eyes flicked to her, before looking away guiltily.  
  
“Have you been sick since I left?” Boa asked, a bit more pointedly this time. “I would have thought you might seek out a physician or healer by now…”  
  
Christopher shook his head slowly and gave her an awkward sort of half-shrug.  
  
“Well,” she huffed, hiding her growing annoyance beneath a veneer of dejection, “if you don’t think I’m good company, perhaps I should leave and try again another time…”  
  
“I did not want you to see me like _this_ ,” Carrion blurted, his voice muffled and almost unintelligible through his fingers. “I couldn’t resist the opportunity to see _you_ , though...”  
  
“... Why?” Boa was no longer able to hide her incredulity. “At this rate you might get _me_ sick--”  
  
“I’m not ill,” he told her flatly.  
  
“Of course,” she replied; it was hard to keep her tone from turning acerbic. “You’re just shaking like a tambourine on Spake because--?”  
  
“It hurts too much for me to eat,” Christopher Carrion cut her off, and then his eyes darted away from her, evasive, as if he’d said too much.  
  
Boa stared him down for a long moment. “What do you mean, _‘it hurts’_ ?” she asked. “What’s going on?”  
  
Christopher shook his head a second time, and she knew that he was clamming up again. The Princess of Day took a deep breath to calm her growing ire; clearly he was in some kind of _distress_ , and trying to force him to come clean through harsh demands would only get her so far before he shut her out completely. It was time to change tactics.  
  
Boa didn’t quite dare sit on the bed beside him. Instead, she took his free, clammy hand and carefully kneeled on the floor, looking up into his face. Carrion’s gaze flickered anxiously in her direction, but he still refused to make direct eye contact, instead just continuing to sit rigid and uncomfortable as the Princess began to speak.  
  
“I was just _worried_ about you,” she told him softly. “It was unlike you to not send me correspondence, and when you said that you weren’t sure when we could meet again I thought perhaps you had _given up_ on me.”  
  
That got his attention. Carrion made a small, mournful noise behind his hand and shifted forward on the bed. Boa had hoped he would pull her back up onto her feet (the plush carpeting was not nearly as comfortable as it had initially looked) but he simply eased himself down to sit on the floor with her.  
  
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Princess,” Carrion mumbled apologetically from between his fingers, his brow furrowed with misery. “I just didn’t know what else to do to keep you _safe_ .”  
  
“Safe?” she asked, ignoring the shot of alarm that rushed through her. “Safe from _what_ ?”  
  
“My grandmother,” he murmured.  
  
Boa winced, sucking a small breath in through her teeth. “What did she say _this_ time?”  
  
“She found out somehow that I have been teaching you more… potent magic than I was supposed to, and now she wants me to stop tutoring you completely.”  
  
Boa was mortified, but kept her expression subdued. The Princess had expected some volatility from the eldest Carrion _eventually,_ but Mater Motley had still managed to blindside her. The old woman was uncompromisingly fickle. “I thought your grandmother had approved of our arrangement?”  
  
“She didn’t want me teaching you anything _important_ ,” Carrion said with growing contempt. “Never mind that you are going to need to know more powerful magic if we’re to be equals in--”  
  
“What _else_ did she say?” Boa asked, gentle but urgent, hoping to stay on the subject at hand.  
  
“She thinks you are a threat, and said she might kill you if we’re not careful…” His shoulders straightened, his back stiffening with resolve. “But I’ll kill _her_ if she tries,” he finished harshly. Boa watched as the fingernails of his right hand (still clamped tightly around his mouth) dug into his jaw.  
  
The Princess glanced down at Carrion’s other hand as she felt it squeeze hers involuntarily; he was trembling again, although with fury or fear at Mater Motley’s edict she wasn’t quite certain. With a sigh, she carefully withdrew her fingers from his clammy grip and tried to think, ignoring Carrion as he continued to talk aimlessly about methods to subdue his grandmother. Boa held no delusion that any of his ideas would actually work.  
  
Mater Motley being aware of their more secretive arrangements had suddenly turned the Princess of Day’s schemes into a far more dangerous game. While Boa didn’t doubt that they could get around the Old Mother’s demands by limiting their study location to areas well beyond her watchful gaze, the Princess also knew that convincing Christopher that it was worth continuing to teach her at all may prove difficult. Although he was angry with Motley at present, and might be willing to risk his own well-being out of pure spite, Boa knew that his priority would be to keep his _beloved_ princess safe; even if that meant refusing to teach her anything more potent than what they had already studied in the process.  
  
_‘Convincing Carrion that teaching me magic is still worth the risk is ideal, but I can’t promise him anything that can be enforced through Abaratian law or magic…’_ Boa thought, biting her lip. _‘But if Motley is putting pressure on him to end it... ’_  
  
It was hard to come up with a plan while Carrion continued to mumble bitter and unintelligible little tirades against his grandmother into his palm.  
  
“... Christopher, why are you hiding your mouth?” she asked him finally.  
  
He abruptly fell silent yet again, but Boa had tolerated enough of his avoidance for one night. “I won’t be afraid,” she told him, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.  
  
“I am not worried about _frightening_ you, lady,” Carrion replied quietly; despite their closeness, Boa had to strain to make sure she heard him correctly. “I just don’t want you to be _disgusted_ .”  
  
“... I won’t be,” she urged, even as she deeply questioned her own sincerity, “I swear.”  
  
The Lord of Midnight still looked reluctant, but his fingers loosened a little and the Princess decided that encouraging him couldn’t hurt. One of her own hands came up and, pinching his sleeve, lightly pulled his arm down and away. Boa had to bite the inside of her cheek hard to keep her shock subdued.  
  
Vicious lacerations had been gouged through his lips in an evenly-spaced pattern, shredding through the soft tissue. Although the wounds had mostly closed by now, traceries of scabbing remained. Boa knew the injuries must have been inflamed during the healing process, causing the scarring to deepen dramatically.  
  
Without thinking, she reached out; Carrion visibly flinched when she did so, but she merely cupped the underside of his chin and carefully turned his face towards her to scrutinize him more clearly.  
  
“Oh _Christopher_ ,” Boa sighed, her voice heavy with genuine pity, “what _did_ you let her _do_ to you?”  
  
She felt a violent shudder run through him beneath her hands, his own sliding up and lightly encircling her wrists. He didn’t push her away, so Boa let her own fingertips creep close enough to trace one of the deep splits in his flesh. At her touch, Carrion’s eyes squeezed shut, his expression twisted somewhere between misery and relief.  
  
“After you left last time, I went to visit my Grandmother. We got into an... _altercation_ .”  
  
“... About our lessons together?” the Princess guessed.  
  
“Yes, and other things. I told her… I said the word ‘love’ in front of her. She didn’t like that very much.”  
  
Boa grimaced. “So she sewed your mouth shut? How long--”  
  
“Only a day, before she tore the stitches out.”  
  
“ _Tore?_ ” she whispered, running her fingertips lightly down the jagged lines again. She supposed if Mater Motley had simply cut the stitching open there would’ve only been small punctures left behind. The Hag would not have been satisfied with just tormenting her grandson, clearly; she had wanted to maim him too.  
  
“Well, then it’s probably a good reason not to tell her that I’m here,” Boa mused, then winced as she realized she'd said something so bluntly insensitive out loud.  
  
“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” Carrion told her in a dour tone. “She’ll figure it out eventually, I expect.”  
  
“I’m sorry to have put you through such trouble,” Boa murmured sheepishly, biting her lip for added effect and hoping he’d buy her contrition. “That was an abysmal attempt to lighten the mood.”  
  
Christopher Carrion didn’t immediately reply; instead, his fingers tightened on her wrists, and he suddenly pulled her towards him. For a moment Boa was afraid he intended to harm her (or worse, _kiss_ her) and she braced her hands against his chest the second he released his grip in preparation to shove him away, but the Princess needn’t have bothered; the Lord of Midnight simply clutched her against his chest, his hands pressing firmly into her back and neck, holding her tight against him as he rested his chin on the top of her head.  
  
“Oh Angel… I truly appreciate the effort. I just don’t know what I would do if she hurt you,” Christopher murmured, and she felt the reverberations of his voice, muffled as it was in her hair.  
  
Boa had been close to Carrion plenty of times before. Some of their lessons required physical contact to ensure a stable conduit for magic, of course, but they had also learned and shared many small, silent ways of communication; little tactile gestures such as the gentle brush of his hand on her upper back when she performed a spell flawlessly; a light tap of her fingers on his elbow to request his attention during a social event; or an affectionate (if icy) caress on the underside of her wrist when he had something new to show her.  
  
Despite all of their many brief moments of contact, Boa had never been _this_ close. She could feel Carrion breathing, slow but occasionally punctuated with an odd, hiccuping breath as he struggled to keep his composure. For a moment she wondered whether he was going to start laughing or crying, and the Princess was not sure which would be more unsettling to bear witness to. She was also surprised to hear his heartbeat tripping against her ear. She hadn’t been sure if he was alive enough to _have_ a pulse.  
  
Still, Boa felt cold and uncomfortable in his embrace, and she hadn’t the faintest idea how to get Carrion to let go of her without making him feel rejected. So she let him hold her for a few moments longer, as his breathing calmed and he started gently stroking the back of her neck; then, she gingerly pushed herself back, keeping her hands on his chest, and gave him her most charming smile.  
  
“Well then, let’s decide on what we _should_ do, together,” Boa said brightly. “Maybe we should find a new place to have our lessons. Somewhere secret, where we can plan and prepare in case your grandmother makes good on her threats. That way, if something bad happens to either of us, the other will know how to proceed.”  
  
“... If anything happened to _you_ , lady, I am not sure I would want to continue _living_ ,” he whispered gravely. “I would die for you.”  
  
Boa felt something her chest tighten at his words; she knew the emotion she was feeling wasn’t love, but his frank declaration of devotion was every bit as endearing as it was disturbing.  
  
In that same moment, the Princess also realized that she now had an answer to a future predicament that had been on her mind for the last few months. How to, when all was said and done, walk away without getting either killed for her deceit or pressured into matrimony.  
  
‘ _If he really has no qualms about dying for me,_ ’ she thought, _‘perhaps I should let him do just that…’_  
  
Some part of her may have pitied Carrion for what she was deciding to do, but perhaps it was only suitable that he would force her to taint her own soul with something so despicable in exchange for both power _and_ freedom. Boa had often thought that she could never seem to acquire one without sacrificing the other.  
  
The first step, she thought to herself, was to ensure that he trusted her whole-heartedly from here on out.  
  
‘’Your grandmother might not like hearing you pledge your life to me…”  
  
“My grandmother isn’t here,” Carrion said, swallowing and licking his lips; Boa could already tell that was going to become a habit.  
  
“What do you mean, that she isn’t in the 12th Tower? Or that she isn’t on _Gorgossium_ ?”  
  
“I managed to request a favor from an associate of mine in Hoobarookus. She’s there now and will hopefully be occupied for the next few days, assuming my employee did his job right. She might hear you came by after the fact, but I can deal with that later.”  
  
“... She won’t like that either.”  
  
For the first time in over a month, he cracked a genuine, if subdued, smile. “Probably not. But it’s worth the risk, I think.”  
  
“I supposed it is,” Boa told him softly, “Which is why I’ve decided to offer you _my_ life as well.”  
  
Carrion stared at her for a long moment, hope and awe slowly creeping into his expression. “Are you offering to allow me to court you? Openly?”  
  
“Oh,” she said hurriedly, “I’m sorry, I can’t promise you _that_ … yet.”  
  
The Lord of Midnight’s mood visibly plummeted in disappointment.  
  
“Then what, exactly, are you offering?” he asked, trying and failing to mask the hurt with cold indifference, turning his head away from her.  
  
The Princess Boa diplomatically ignored his sulk, her fingers toying lightly with the buttons of his tunic. “We both knew that this arrangement would be risky, as ventures in love usually are...” She began carefully.  
  
Carrion’s expression remained unimpressed, but she saw him watching her closely out of the corner of his eye.  
  
“You’ve been putting your life on the line to teach me magic so that I can feel _secure_ with you, and we both know that I wish to repay your generosity in kind _someday_ ,” she told him. In truth, Boa had no intention to do anything of the sort. “You just said that if something happened to me, something _fatal_ , you would rather die… Well, I think that is a very noble statement to make, so it is only fair that I should promise you the same.”  
  
Carrion turned to face her again, and Boa felt her smile falter as she noticed he looked more bemused than she thought he would.  
  
“ _Because_ ,” she continued, a little awkwardly, “that way neither of us will be _alone_. If something does happen.”  
  
“... Alone? As in, if--”  
  
“If one of us happens to die, yes,” she finished, rather pointedly. “We’d go _together_. Assuming, of course, there was no way to bring the other back…”  
  
“... How do you know if we are both going to the same place?” Carrion asked, still wary despite the fact that the notion clearly appealed to his morbid sense of romanticism. “What if there are different afterlives, like humans from the Hereafter believe, and a soul like mine is destined only for eternal torment? Or we’re reborn as different people in different times, or different worlds, and we never--”  
  
“We’ll find each other,” Boa said simply. “One way or another, one _life_ or another.”  
  
‘ _Or we won’t,_ ’ she thought to herself. ‘ _Even if he finds_ me _, I can simply banish his ghost if it becomes a nuisance…_ ’  
  
Carrion licked at his gouged lips in thought. Then, after a very long moment of contemplation; “Very well. If this is _really_ what you want… How should we make this promise?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Boa admitted, frowning. “I just figured agreeing on it might be all we’d need. After all, it’s not like we will both somehow forget it.”  
  
“... There are spells,” Carrion offered, “that can ensure that we hold true to one another…”  
  
“No spells,” she told him firmly. “Just... Just _us_ .” She caught the slightly dubious glance Carrion gave her. “A promise isn’t really a promise if it’s enforced, is it? Then it’s just a contract.”  
  
“I suppose...” he mused, although she still detected something unconvinced in his tone.  
  
“A promise,” Boa reiterated, “is built on _trust_ . You trust me, don’t you?”  
  
The Midnight Prince looked a little guilty that she might be made to think otherwise. “Of course I do,” he said hurriedly.  
  
She beamed at him. “Good!”  
  
They were still very close to one another, and Boa took the opportunity to slip her hands down from where they still rested on his chest to lightly touch his waist, slowly tracing her fingertips over his belt.  
  
“... What are you doing?” Carrion asked suddenly in a very guarded tone.  
  
“Well,” she murmured softly, “since you seem doubtful of my sincerity… perhaps I can _prove_ to you just how much this means to me, without using magic...”  
  
“ _Oh_ ?” he suddenly looked exhilarated and, perhaps, a little nervous. “I… are you _certain_ this is what you want?”  
  
The Princess grinned at him. “Of course,” she said mellifluously, just as her fingertips found what she was seeking; a leather grip decorated in an elegant silver filigree, which she gently pulled to reveal a sharp, slender knife.  
  
Boa’s smile turned into a smirk as she examined her discovery. “This is the one I gave you,” she mused. “Have you used it at all? It still looks brand new.”  
  
“Oh, no...” Carrion admitted, rather sheepishly. “It’s a little too ornate for practical use, I’m afraid. Fle...” he hesitated, and he cleared his throat before trying again, “... _Viscera_ ,” he continued, ‘would simply get trapped in all the little details, and I’d hate for such a beautiful gift to succumb to rust… But I keep it on my person as a token to remind me of your good favor. I don’t go anywhere without it.”  
  
The Princess already knew well what the Lord of Midnight got up to behind the walls of the Twelfth Tower; even if she hadn’t heard cries and screams of grief and suffering muffled behind the locked doors, the innumerable torture devices lying around on display like morbid artifacts would’ve given her plenty to think about. But it was always amusing to see Carrion squirm as he attempted to sweep his less pleasant duties under the rug for the sake of her supposed comfort. It was a wasted effort, of course, but she supposed it was the thought that mattered.  
  
“Good,” Boa said again. “It’s perfect.”  
  
She turned the edge of the knife against her open hand and slipped the blade across, quick and cold. Carrion gave a shocked gasp as he fumbled to snatch the knife back from her, and Boa wondered for a moment if she had failed the cut somehow. She felt no immediate pain. Then, slowly, spots of blood began to blossom and spread, seeping into the creases of her palm.  
  
As soon as he had a hold of it, Carrion threw the knife into a densely shadowed corner of the room-- where it hit the wall and clattered under the bed-- and cradled her hand in his, wincing sympathetically as he squeezed it in an effort to stem the sticky red stream that started to patter little crimson speckles upon the carpet.  
  
“ _By all the Towers_ ,” he hissed under his breath. “Whatever possessed you to do _that_ ?”  
  
Boa flinched at the feeling of his frigid hands holding hers in a vice-like grip; if he held her hand any tighter he might crush her fingers. “You haven’t heard of a blood bond?” she asked coyly.  
  
He still looked scandalized by what she’d done, so Boa explained, reciting in coquettish verbatim from a text she had read in Carrion’s own library; “ _‘The Abarat has its own magical blood-bindings, of course... but in lieu of magic, humans from the Hereafter will sometimes cut their hands and press the open wounds together to create a primitive sort of pact, without using true spells or enchantments. It’s an intimate, physical act to bind their intentions, without using magical means to do so.’_ ”  
  
Christopher was staring at their clenched hands, lost for how to respond.  
  
“I would’ve accepted a kiss, Princess,” he said at last.  
  
“... Your lips look sore,” Boa replied.  
  
“Well, yes, I suppose they are,” Carrion admitted ruefully, “but you still shouldn’t have gouged your hand open; there are too many beasts on this island that take the scent of blood as an invitation. Come, we need to clean it and--”  
  
“No!” she snapped, snatching her hand out of his grip. “Not until we’re finished our promise!”  
  
“Princess, I really must insist--” he implored, but Boa was having none of it.  
  
“I am not letting you treat it until you agree,” she demanded. She was a little embarrassed by how childish she sounded, but perhaps a bit of volatility might convince Carrion of her sincere intentions.  
  
The Lord of Midnight was still weighing his options, she knew, but it didn’t take long for him to surrender to her terms.  
  
“Alright, Princess,” he sighed at last. “Whatever you wish.”  
  
Carrion glanced wearily around the room; he appeared to be deliberating on whether or not to get up and search for the knife, and she watched him slump down awkwardly (still clasping her injured hand in one of his) and reach a long arm beneath his bed. Boa craned her neck to see what he was keeping under there --’ _probably monsters,_ ’ she thought, and almost laughed-- when Carrion withdrew, empty-handed.  
  
“I can’t find the knife,” he said by way of explanation, and she considered offering to help him search, but before the Princess could stand he brought his free hand up to his mouth and bit down sharply into the meat of his palm.  
  
After a moment Carrion winced and released his hold, licking faint traces of blood from his lips. Smiling wryly, he showed her the jagged collection of sickle-shaped punctures now bleeding freely into his palm. “There we are…” he concluded, as close to cheerful as he’d ever sounded.  
  
She didn’t reply, staring at him in faint mortification. Christopher seemed to shrink in on himself a little.  
  
“Perhaps that was... excessive,” he said sheepishly. “Forgive me, Princess.”  
  
Boa could tell already that the bite on his hand would become yet another scar and, perhaps, that was what Carrion had wanted; some visible evidence of their promise, although it wouldn’t hold up as proof beyond this room. The thought of him having a constant reminder of their promise (even if that reminder might fade in time) suddenly made her feel a little uneasy.  
  
“That’s a good way to get an infection, Christopher,” she offered at last.  
  
The Lord of Midnight stared at her, baleful, although there was something soft in his eyes too, no-doubt made affectionate by her false concern. “It’s a little late for that consideration, Angel.”  
  
Without another word, Carrion took her hand firmly in his and squeezed; the Princess suppressed a shiver as his blood (so _cold_ ) mingled with hers, clutching palm to palm. Boa could feel the texture of the bleeding indents his teeth left behind, harsh against the stinging cut she'd made.  
  
“Should we say something,” he asked her quietly, “To mark this momentous occasion?”  
  
The Princess smirked. “... ‘Til death do us part.” Carrion’s jagged lips twitched in what was nearly another smile.  
  
They sat there for a long moment; to Boa’s surprise, it was he who broke contact first.  
  
“We really should tend to your wound, Princess,” Carrion told her quietly as he got up slowly to stand over her. “I would truly hate for it to fester.”  
  
Boa peered down at her hand, grimacing at the stickiness between her fingers; some of her-- no, _their_ \-- blood was already beginning to dry.  
  
“Very well,” she sighed, and took his proffered hand, letting him pull her gently up to her feet.  
  
Christopher left her presence for only a moment, returning from a secondary room she hadn’t even noticed during her earlier exploration with a small bundle of cloth in his hands.  
  
“Why not heal it with magic?” she asked him before she could stop herself.  
  
Carrion smirked at her. “You just partook in some very traditional bloodletting, Princess, so perhaps I should try some traditional healing in turn. Using magic now would feel… ingenuine, somehow, don’t you think?”  
  
The Lord of Midnight didn’t take notice of the unconvincing smile Boa offered as he gingerly began to clean the area around her cut, and she made a point to ignore him when he absent-mindedly dabbed the cloth with his tongue once to moisten it. As long as he didn’t start licking the blood directly off her hand, she thought with faint revulsion, she could tolerate this.  
  
Afterward, he took a small bandage and, pouring some potion out of a little blue bottle onto it, pressed it directly into the palm of her hand; holding it there firmly with his thumb, Carrion wrapped a taut length of gauze round it before fastening the bandage in place with a small clasp.  
  
“Leave that on until tomorrow night, Princess,” he said.  
  
“... It’ll heal so soon?”  
  
“You executed a very clean cut, so it will heal well, but the potion will ensure it does not reopen. It’s _not_ magic, exactly,” he reiterated, catching her faint, knowing smirk. “Just very old medicine... and besides, I wouldn’t want you to be unable to participate in tomorrow’s lesson,” the Lord of Midnight finished indulgently. Boa couldn’t resist the sincere grin that spread across her face now.  
  
“I suppose I’ll see you then,” she replied with a grateful (if slightly coquettish) curtsy to her host, before she turned to leave.  
  
“Boa,” Carrion suddenly called, and the Princess glanced back at him from the doorframe; even with the moonlight illuminating the chamber it was difficult to see him properly while he remained in the dark. “I wanted to tell you…”  
  
“... Yes?”  
  
“I… I _care_ for you, deeply,” he told her very deliberately, and she caught the look of meaningful trepidation that flitted conflictingly across his face. “Please, don’t _ever_ doubt that.”  
  
Boa smiled at him warmly. “And you _know_ how I feel about _you_ ,” she said coyly, and walked away down the hall of lantern light.

* * *

After the Princess Boa’s departure, Christopher Carrion crooked his finger and, with a long creak and quiet click, the door shut itself at his bidding. The Lord of Midnight stood silent and alone for a long moment, his demeanor utterly inscrutable in the pale moonlight save for the bright reflections of his eyes, before he abruptly turned and retreated to the darkest corner of the room.  
  
There he crouched down and, running his hands over the floor beneath his bed, his fingertips grazed something sharp and smooth. Finding the knife Boa had used on her own flesh, Christopher picked it up and moved back near the window. Examining the edge carefully, there was only the faintest line of red coloring the silvery sheen, although he could have sworn it glimmered gilden when the moonlight touched it.  
  
His princess had cut herself so quickly that almost nothing had been left behind. Nevertheless, something about the sight made the Midnight Prince’s heart swell with tremendous and turbulent affection. He carefully-- almost reverentially-- brought the blade to his tattered lips.  
  
Carrion couldn’t quite tell whether the metallic tang upon his tongue was actually Boa’s blood, or just the natural flavor of the knife. It didn’t really matter, he supposed; when he’d absently dabbed the cloth he was using to clean her hand to his mouth, a thrill of bittersweet elation had run through him so violently that he was relieved Boa had turned her gaze away from him. Exhaustion and hunger, Christopher thought sardonically to himself, must have hindered his judgment, making him momentarily untrusting and uncertain as to her obviously good intentions.  
  
She had offered him nothing short of her very _life_ , after all, and what a precious gift it was! Perhaps Boa was not quite ready to give him her hand in marriage, not _yet_ , but the Princess being willing (even _eager_ ) to swear herself unto death in the chance his own survival was forfeit was most assuredly the first step towards such a decision. Christopher Carrion would gladly give her as much time as she needed; she had promised her life-- and surely, someday, her _love_ ?-- to him, after all. Now, if he could just be patient enough to wait for it...  
  
It had taken less than a drop of her blood to reawaken his appetite and desire to live. His lips still felt tender and his hand ached, but the feeling was almost pleasant now.  
  
Instead of returning the knife to the sheath still clipped upon his belt, the Midnight Prince chose to lay it delicately on the windowsill; a grateful offering to Lady Moon, or whatever other deity had seen fit to favor him on this most luminous night. No offering could be blasphemous to him if it had allowed such a miracle to take place.  
  
His duty to sanctimonious ardor satisfied, Christopher Carrion turned sharply on his heel and left the suite; he was too excited to sleep now, so opted to begin planning for Boa’s lesson the next day, heading down the spiral stone stairs to the library first in the hopes of scouting out places where they could work undisturbed.  
  
Oh what a sweet, invigorating thing love was!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an exhausting, yet satisfying chapter to write. There's a lot I feel I could've rewritten or tweaked, but I feel that if I don't post it I'll keep editing and altering it forever trying to get it right. I originally only had Boa’s point of view, but wanted to go back and add a little bit of Carrion’s own perspective at the end, as I felt throughout the story he was a little too… rational.
> 
> The narrative written by Clive at the end of Days of Magic, Nights of War always suggested to me that there may have been some sort of agreement between Carrion and Boa regarding the possibility of dying together if marriage was not feasible, and it would explain why Christopher was still so convinced of Boa’s sincerity, despite clear reservations and years of neglect, right up until she rejected him outright for Finnegan.


	3. Stairs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating** : General  
>  **Warning(s)** : Mentions of domestic abuse, alcoholism, and death.  
>  **Character(s)** : Christopher Carrion and Candy Quackenbush  
>  **Summary** : Takes place between _Chapter 38: Midnight’s Heart_ and _Chapter 42: The High Maze_ of _Days of Magic, Nights of War_ , serving as a small extension of the conversation between Carrion and Candy on the stairs of the Dead Man’s House.  
>  **Genre(s)** : Gap-Filler

* * *

_“I feel that hope again. Thanks to you.”  
  
_ “Oh,” Candy said, uncomfortably. “That’s... good to hear.”  
  
Christopher Carrion was obviously waiting on bated breath for her to continue, but she really didn’t know what else to say when faced with such a declaration. For her part, Candy didn’t want him to get the wrong impression that his magnanimous statement was a mutual sentiment between them, but she suspected that outright rejecting his intimations could be a grave mistake on her part. So, after a brief and floundering pause, she decided it might be more tactful to try to change the subject to something a little less delicate than the matter of mending hearts.  
  
“Well,” Candy began, very aware of how flimsy her redirection was, “what about _you_ ?”  
  
“What about _me_ ?” Carrion stared at her with growing bemusement. “... I thought I had made my feelings very clear.”  
  
She gave him a nervous smile. "Well, yes, you did. What I meant was that you said you wanted to know about my earliest memories, to figure out how we might be connected, right? So, what about _yours_ ?”  
  
The Lord of Midnight looked a bit put off by her derailment, but thankfully opted to indulge her curiosity for now. “I have lived a long time, Candy. My earliest memories are not nearly as clear as yours.”  
  
“Just give it a try,” she said, giving him another smile that she hoped was more encouraging than the last. ”It might not be useful, but who knows?”  
  
“Who knows,” Carrion echoed, and leaned against the splintered railing, staring off at nothing for a long moment. One of his hands moved up to tap absently on the glass of his collar as he thought, and Candy decided that as long as he was keeping his distance, she could relax a little. Leaning back against the wall, she slid down quietly to crouch on the step. Not quite sitting, in case he gave her a reason to flee again, but comfortable enough on the narrow staircase.  
  
“I remember fire,” Carrion murmured quietly.  
  
“From the Night Mansion?”  
  
He nodded. “And a woman, screaming in a roaring pillar of flame.”  
  
“You don’t think it was your mother, do you?” Candy asked, and then flinched when he looked at her sharply.  
  
“What makes you assume that?” he asked.  
  
Candy shrugged, picking nervously at her fingernails. “Well, if it wasn’t one of the servants… And your sister was already dead, right? So... who else could it be?”  
  
“There is no way to know for sure,” Carrion said evasively.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she offered, regretful for accidentally bringing the topic back to such a horrific event. “I should’ve known those might be your earliest memories.”  
  
The Lord of Midnight sighed, the breath lightly pushing one of his nightmares against the glass collar for a moment. “You were not even born then, Candy. You do not need to apologize.”  
  
"I know,” she said quietly, “It’s just... unfortunate, I suppose.”  
  
“I remember other things,” he continued, “although I suspect they are just dreams.”  
  
“‘Just dreams’? Not nightmares?”  
  
“Well, I suppose some of them might be to _you_ ,” Carrion said, giving her a wry smile.  
  
“Alright, well... tell me about them.”  
  
“There was one dream I had several times as a child, of a man standing over me while I was asleep.”  
  
“Are you sure it was just a dream?” Candy asked, thinking privately to herself that she really couldn’t imagine how Christopher Carrion might’ve looked when he was young.  
  
“He was never there when I woke up.”  
  
“Did he do anything?”  
  
“He would just stand over me, and sometimes talk to me. He said...” Carrion trailed off abruptly. Candy watched one of his nightmares trace the thin lines of his lips. “I suppose it does not really matter what he said," he continued. "He was always looking down at me.”  
  
“That still sounds scary, having a stranger watching over you while you sleep.”  
  
“I spent much of my childhood in the company of strangers,” Carrion told her dismissively. “Servants and guards, mostly. Perhaps the man was one of them, although if he ever was real he’s probably long gone by now.”  
  
Candy noticed he looked a little disappointed. “My grandmother never wanted anybody to get too close to me,” he admitted. “If that man was real and she found him, he likely would not have walked away unscathed.”  
  
There was a long, uncomfortable pause before Carrion turned his eyes back to her.  
  
“Anyway,” he said brusquely, “You have been quite eager to listen to me talk about my family, so how about you tell me about your own?”  
  
“My family? Well, they’re, um...” Candy hesitated, feeling put on the spot. “Well, my mother and brothers are fine, I guess...”  
  
“And your father?” Christopher Carrion asked and, to Candy’s slight alarm, he took a step up on the stairs toward her. She didn’t respond for a long, awkward moment, watching him closely in case he had decided to end their ceasefire; to her relief, the Lord of Midnight just leaned casually on the railing once again, making it creak ominously under his weight. He was still a little over ten feet away from her, so she decided he wasn’t a cause for concern. Yet.  
  
“W-well… it’s complicated...” Candy began gingerly.  
  
“How so?” he queried, challenging her to elaborate. Under Carrion’s scrutiny, she suddenly realized there was little point in protecting her father’s pride while she was here in the Abarat. It’s not like the Lord of Midnight was going to ever meet her family, after all.  
  
“He’s a sad drunk,” Candy told him frankly, the expected feeling of guilt and shame surprisingly washed away in an instant by the faint thrill of liberation for finally being so candid. “He thinks he can beat respect out of his wife and kids while offering nothing in return but growing debt with his miserable habit of chugging beer and smoking cigarettes all day, every day.”  
  
Christopher Carrion stared at her, clearly taken aback by her blunt assessment. “... I see.”  
  
“My brothers are fine,” she added hastily, as if to soothe her own harsh words against their father’s poor parenting. “I mean, they can be obnoxious but we… we watched out for each other, I guess.”  
  
“You miss them,” Carrion said. It wasn’t a question.  
  
“A little,” Candy admitted.  
  
“... And your mother?”  
  
“Mom is… also complicated.” She saw the sympathetic look Carrion gave her and hastened to add, “don’t get me wrong, she’s a nice person, and is always good to us, but her love for dad is coming at the expense of her… _our_ safety. She won’t leave him, despite everything he’s put us through.”  
  
“Don’t you think her loyalty would be an admirable quality, if she only chose to place it in safer hands?”  
  
Candy gave him a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe. I think she still hopes she can change him for the better, but he relies on that to keep leeching off her. I don’t think dad wants her to feel like she can make it on her own. Even if she’s been doing everything for us already, without him.”  
  
“I must ask; is he truly so irredeemable in your eyes? Perhaps he is just lacking in motivation.”  
  
“... I think he has had many wasted chances,” Candy replied, suddenly very conscious of who exactly she was talking to.  
  
The Lord of Midnight huffed, although she couldn’t quite tell if it was from amusement or annoyance.  
  
“Your family seems otherwise rather ordinary, is all I was implying,” he said. “Not perfect, certainly, but hardly unique. Which makes your appearance here in the Abarat all the more _unusual_ .”  
  
Candy leaned back against the wall, looking up at the lights swimming through the cracks in the stairs. “I guess,” she said skeptically. “Though still I don’t really see how.”  
  
They lapsed into a long moment of silence, Candy lost in thought while Carrion quite literally chewed on his own.  
  
“There is something I’ve been trying to figure out,” she offered finally, “but I’m not sure what it might mean.”  
  
Carrion swallowed the remains of one of his nightmares. “Oh?”  
  
“I visited my mother.”  
  
“... In the Hereafter, I presume?”  
  
“Yes and no. I never left the Abarat. I was dreaming in Scoriae, and I found myself back in Chickentown.” Candy was not even sure why she was telling him this, although she supposed that if anyone would be able to tell her about the nature of dream magic it might be a man who lives among his own nightmares. “I went home and found my mother sleeping... but only her physical self was really asleep, and the other half of her was standing with me.”  
  
“Are you sure it wasn’t just a dream?” Carrion asked, echoing her earlier sentiment. Candy shook her head.  
  
“No, I’m sure. We were able to talk for a little while before dad showed up and woke her.” She didn’t dare give Carrion any details about that conversation. The Fantomaya seemed to want to keep their dealings in her life a secret and, while the Lord of Midnight may have answers for her, she wasn’t quite willing to tell him everything she knew just yet. “Anyway, I guess I just wanted to know how she could do that, if she’s never been to the Abarat.”  
  
“I suppose you could have perhaps inherited your magic somehow,” Carrion mused. “Plenty of trade went on in Hark’s Harbor in the old days. With slaves, magic and merchants all passing through with their wares, it’s not impossible that you could have sorcery hidden somewhere in your heritage.”  
  
“I’m not sure if our family has really lived in town that long. I mean, I suppose it’s possible, but...”  
  
“Just something to consider. It certainly does not clarify how you have so _much_ magic. However, it may explain how you and your mother can dream walk.”  
  
Candy nodded absently. Despite how practical Carrion’s suggestion seemed, some part of her couldn't quite believe it.  
  
They lapsed into a contemplative silence yet again. Candy’s legs were getting sore from holding her crouched position, so she stood back up, stretching. The Lord of Midnight watched her out of the corner of his eye, and she had the distinct impression he was looking for any sign that she was intending to bolt.  
  
“It seems this mystery is not one that will be solved any time soon,” he said quietly. “Regardless, this has been an illuminating conversation.”  
  
“I guess so,” Candy agreed. “Although what any of this could mean is still beyond me.”  
  
Carrion nodded, and she suddenly noticed he looked rather regretful.  
  
“What is it?” she asked, and he seemed to hesitate for a moment before replying.  
  
_“You know, of course, that I’m supposed to kill you in this house. My grandmother believes you are a disruptive force in the Abarat. She believes that unless you’re stopped you’ll cause our plans to be... inconvenienced.”  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written to address certain narrative inconsistencies in Absolute Midnight, namely a line stating that Carrion had told Candy about seeing his mother burning alive despite there being no mention of that whatsoever prior. Due to their conversations in Tazmagor, at 34 Followell Street and on the Wormwood being very brief and specified, one can only assume that it was something they might’ve discussed in the Dead Man’s House during the brief cutaway that follows the adventures of the rest of the cast for a while.
> 
> Otherwise, this was just an exercise in dialogue.


End file.
